


Present Moment

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Birthday, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I said I wanted to make it happen, didn’t I?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Present Moment

It’s been ages since Masako’s really played basketball, with another person against someone she wasn’t sure she could beat or even how to begin a strategy. Not that she’s out of practice per se; she’s got her kids to keep her busy with demonstrations and she’ll occasionally jump into their little games—but then it’s always to exploit weaknesses, to get big guys to stop relying on their height so much when the smallest players will figure out how to run under their arms and pass it low and do they not teach staying low in middle school anymore? And she’ll say this at least two or three times a year because it bears repeating, because high school boys grow like no one else, because they won’t get it until she runs circles around them at twice their age all while cursing her slowly-diminishing physical abilities. And she’s played one-on-one with Alex; even if they’re both dead tired after a long day they’ll still take the extra time and energy to shoot around or to drive past each other but even that (as enjoyable as it is, as much as it brings out both of their competitive streaks and a little bit of childishness and the physicality of it all makes Masako almost feel like a teenager running around Akita after dark all over again) is not quite the real thing; if it’s one-on-one they can’t pass and they can’t rely on someone else to reach out and grab the ball after they block it and they both know each other inside and out anyway, have solved and re-solved each other over and back again. This will never get old, will always stay fresh, but it’s not the same as being able to grab Alex’s hand and pull her toward the court and challenge whoever happens to be there and kick their asses soundly.

They’ve talked about it, in some vague sort of hypothetical sense, and they’ve agreed that they should do it—but Masako had just let it drop like water from the gutter of conversation down the side of the house because she’d figured it would just lead nowhere, and at the time how could they? They were out together with only enough time squeezed out for each other and no one else, and the courts where they’d been had been mostly deserted, and Masako had accepted it, forgetting that this is Alex and once she thinks something is a good and feasible idea she will make sure it gets done.

Which is why they’re headed down streets where Masako’s never been her second down in Los Angeles and Alex has taken the day off from work because they’re going to play street ball today, at some semi-organized, totally for fun, round-robin that she heard about from a friend of a friend, and she claims it’s a warmup for the night league and they’re definitely going to do that soon and Masako is filled with something that even she just can’t chalk up to jet lag. She squeezes Alex’s hand.

Alex looks at her and grins. “I said I wanted to make it happen, didn’t I?”

Masako wants to say a thousand things—that this hasn’t happened yet, that holy shit they’re really doing this, questions about what their competition’s going to be like, all the hows (how she made it happen, how she kept it a surprise). She settles for something tangential to all of this.

“It’s your birthday; I’m the one who’s supposed to surprise you.”

And then, funnily enough, Alex does look surprised for a split second, but then her face softens into a smile and her eyes crinkle at the corners, visible even through her thick lenses.

“I don’t need surprises. It’s a present enough that you’re here.”

Masako elbows her; she delivers cheesy lines with such a straight face that Masako’s never sure of how serious she’s being. “You think I don’t get as much out of it?”

Alex shakes her head. “I mean…I don’t have a problem being greedy when I have an excuse.”

“I know,” says Masako.

Alex catches her smile but still pinches her stomach.

* * *

 

It takes a while for them to get into it; they’re losing by the end of the first short half of their match but Masako can feel the passes starting to connect, is becoming more confident in knowing where Alex will be and who she’ll race to cover as they switch to defense. And they’ve gotten over watching each other enough to focus (and as much as Masako knows she’d stared when Alex had taken her lopsided pass and shot a bad-angle three that had landed on the rim and spiraled through the net, the way she’d managed to come up into almost perfect form as if her opponent didn’t matter even though he’d been almost hitting her in the face, she’d caught Alex looking back when she’d managed not only to block the guy she’d been guarding who was a good twenty centimeters taller than her but gain control of the ball despite the sting on her hands—and then she’d been able to pass the ball to Alex and give her time to remember her surroundings and still take the easy layup) and complete their passes and shots and blocks without long glances, with the pace of the game settling into their muscles.

And then they break for a few minutes; Masako reties her hair and Alex splashes water on her face like some kind of show-off hockey player and it’s a good thing she decided not to put on any makeup the way she wipes her face with the bottom of her white t-shirt. Her face is red; Masako’s probably is, too (it feels hot and energized the way only a good match can make it) and her palms definitely are, from the sting of the well-worn ball against them. She stretches out her legs, waiting for the other team to be ready.

They aren’t, of course; even Masako and probably Alex aren’t really prepared for the way this goes, the feeling of connection and control—it’s not even that they’re wrestling for control; they have it and it’s untouchable, the ball going from one to the other to the net, batted away from their opponents and from the air like a cat’s paws batting insects to the ground, as if they’re adults playing monkey-in-the-middle with three-year-olds. The deficit is gone before Masako even looks at the scoreboard; they extend their lead like a flash-flood taking over the court and then the final whistle blows.

* * *

 

“I scored more than you,” says Alex.

“I wasn’t aware we were keeping track,” says Masako. “And if we factor in all the baskets I blocked from scoring—”

“You don’t know if they would have gone in. And besides, the best defense is a good offense.”

Masako knows Alex is teasing—but still. She crosses her arms and looks away, hiding the twitch of her mouth.

“Masako,” Alex whines, draping both arms over her shoulders and almost falling like a deadweight on her back. “I’m sorry.”

Masako sighs. She doesn’t really want to have to drag Alex the rest of the way back. She turns her head to look Alex in the eye, and Alex immediately perks up and pokes her in the cheek.

“I see that smile.”

They’re on the cusp of rush hour, and here that’s enough for the traffic stream to be constant while they wait to cross the street. Alex’s mouth is close enough for Masako to dart in and kiss it briefly.

“Happy birthday.”

And then Alex closes the gap again and they miss the light twice.


End file.
